


i'm wishing (i'm wishing)

by theobscurepotato



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, M/M, They're dumbasses your honor, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23078440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theobscurepotato/pseuds/theobscurepotato
Summary: Djinns are notoriously tricky, he thinks to himself. Better to not complicate it and ask for exactly what he wants.  Be clear and concise. Make the wish.“I want some fucking sleep,” Geralt says, voice cracking.A gift for @reineyday, who requested “au where geralt doesn’t get interrupted by jaskier and wishes for some sleep from the djinn and then he basically becomes snow white.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 408
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pratintraining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pratintraining/gifts).



Geralt can’t fucking sleep. 

He’s tried meditation. He’s tried copious amounts of alcohol, a brief time of no alcohol, and a whole portfolio of tricks from an extended stay at the Passiflora “guaranteed to exhaust even a Witcher.” But every night sleep eludes him, proving harder to catch than a Bożątko in a burrow. 

He’s not sure when the idea of the djinn morphed into a plan of action. A few months prior, Jaskier had hyper-fixated on a new composition of his about a djinn, convinced he was writing his next “Toss a Coin.” The tune was catchy and the refrain _“Like a djinn in a bottle, prithee rub me the right way”_ played on repeat in Geralt’s head as he laid there in the dark, Jaskier drooling onto his shoulder. Geralt had actually managed to sleep a little, that night, for whatever reason, despite Jaskier’s cold feet pressed against his ankles. 

The next day Jaskier stashed his lute on Roach and walked next to Geralt, singing the lyrics to the song over and over again as he tweaked his composition. 

“Djinns are the resort of the very desperate and are always bad news,” Geralt had told him darkly, and the bard had just grinned. 

_“Waiting for someone to release me,”_ Jaskier sang, turning back to wink at him, laughter in his eyes, and Geralt promptly pushed him into a duck pond. The bard had left later that day, mumbling something about returning to favor in the eyes of the Countess de Stael and Geralt resumed life on the Path alone. 

And one sleepless night, with that damn song running through his mind, the thought takes hold: “I need to find a djinn.”

It feels suspiciously like destiny when he first hears rumours of a djinn trapped in a river outside Rinde. A witcher asking about a djinn raises no suspicions and the townsfolk are more than happy to provide directions to the supposed resting spot of the bottled terror. It looks like any other river; Geralt is not sure why a mage would hide something so valuable in such a normal location. He first tries trawling a fishing line on the bottom of the river before giving up and purchasing a net that evening in town. 

The next day, he returns and casts the net over and over into the waters. He knows how futile this quest seems and a tiny part of him wishes that Jaskier would return and see the hurt in him and dissuade him from this task. Despite the bard’s tendency to monologue, he is the only person capable of helping Geralt put shape to his own thoughts. But Jaskier does not appear, so Geralt dredges the net again on the bottom of the riverbed. He hauls the net to the shore and sifts through the mud and silt to find a bottle with an engraved seal. The medallion around his neck hums. 

Geralt stares at the djinn’s bottle within his hand. Now that he’s reached this point, he hesitates. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the water: exhaustion is plainly etched on his face in the dark hollows under his eyes. He looks like a feral, trapped animal. He needs sleep, else it is only a matter of time before he makes a stupid mistake and gets killed while out on a contract. Making a wish is his only option. 

Geralt twists the stopper and pulls the seal off the bottle. He braces himself.

Nothing happens. Still, it might be waiting, invisible, in hopes of tricking him.

Djinns are notoriously tricky, he thinks to himself. Better to not complicate it and ask for exactly what he wants. Be clear and concise. Make the wish. 

“I want some fucking sleep,” he says, voice cracking. 

A gust of wind shakes the trees, but otherwise the forest remains silent.

Geralt waits. He doesn’t feel any different. 

Fuck.

“I said, I want some fucking sleep!” 

There is no answer, no rush of power, no djinn, no anything. 

Geralt jams the seal back onto the bottle with a growl and throws it as hard as he can into the river. He sits in the mud of the riverbank until the sun begins to set. Something drops onto his head and startles him out of his thoughts. An apple rolls at his feet. He looks up into the branches overhead and sees clusters of ripe fruit.  
He could have sworn he was sitting under an oak tree. This lack of sleep is really starting to affect him.

Geralt picks up the fruit and wipes it on his jacket. The fruit is a deep red, like blood, or an expensive wine, and free of blemish. It looks fine enough for a lord’s table.

A slight breeze rustles the branches overhead. 

He barely has the bite of fruit in his mouth before darkness overtakes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, for those who caught it, you've just been Christina Aguilera-d. Forgive me.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier first hears the song in a tavern in Oxenfurt. 

As expected, his reunion with the Countess de Stael proves brief and ends with him shimmying down a fucking tower while being pelted with an assortment of objects from the Countess’ bedchamber, including (but not limited to) five pairs of shoes, two perfume bottles, a jeweled knife, three bottles of fine wine from Toussaint, and an unfortunate pet hedgehog. 

“It’s always such tender, fun time, until she catches you in the pantry with her personal guard,” Jaskier says sadly, staring into his empty cup of Mahakaman mead. 

The barman snorts, passes him a fresh tankard. “Will you be performing here tonight, Master Jaskier?” 

“Not tonight, Stjepan. I’m too tender. Physically –” he clarifies quickly. “Hands are still a little sore from the climb down. And you already have entertainment.”  
Jaskier nods at the corner of the establishment, where a young man with long hair and a pimpled face is singing in a reedy voice. “Also, I have to say, he’s the better choice from a business perspective. I can’t listen to this without immediately wishing I was drunk.” 

“Aye. Alec is a good lad, but the gods didn’t dish out a full serving of talent there. He right massacres that new witcher song.”

“Witcher song?”

“The one he’s performing now. The Djinn of Rinde. Listen.”

Jaskier turns back to watch the musician, eyes narrowed. The young man rocks back and forth on his feet and sings:  
_  
With a roar the djinn escaped the pitcher  
and quickly vanquished the arrogant witcher  
Stealing from Gerald of Rivia his very breath.  
So the lesson is this: catch fishes not wishes  
else you get cursed with the sleep of the living death!  
_  
There is a smattering of weak applause when he finishes. 

Jaskier drains the tankard in one breath and stands. He claps slowly as he crossed the room. 

“Excuse me, friend,” Jaskier beams aggressively at the musician. “I am assuming, based on the uneven meter, aggressive rhyme scheme, and glaring factual inaccuracies that this is in fact a Valdo Marx composition?” 

“Y-y-es. I first learned it but a week ago.”

“And the title, Djinn of Rinde? This tale unfolds in Rinde?”

“Y-yes.”

“And the witcher is still there?”

“I only know the song!” the young man squeaks. “Master Jaskier, would you please unhand my collar.” 

“Right, sorry there.” Jaskier unclenches his hands and wipes them on his trousers before walking shakily back to his seat. He grabs another full tankard of mead, downs it, tosses a few coins on the counter, slings his lute over his shoulder and with a wave, marches towards the door. 

“His name is Geralt, by the way,” Jaskier yells over his shoulder on the way out. “Not Gerald, you absolute dolt.”

* * *

“He’s not here.”

The sorceress reclines on a velvet chaise lounge. She is, like all sorceresses, absolutely stunning: clad in a black negligee and a half-face mask, a star-shaped pendant at her throat. The room positively reeks with the scent of lilac and gooseberries. The scent makes Jaskier dizzy.

Around her, the citizens of Rinde twist and moan with pleasure. In another circumstance, it could have been quite a lot of fun. 

“He’s not here,” she repeats. “The one you seek. The witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” 

Jaskier stands before her with his most winning smile. He’s aware that his hair is unwashed and his eyes are dark with exhaustion but he valiantly tries to cobble together some charm anyway. Even if he smells like the horse he rode in on. 

“Sorceress. Merciful, beautiful lady. I am extremely tired. I’ve ran through two horses just to get here from Oxenfurt. You look rather busy yourself with this lovely...party. So if we could spare ourselves these vagaries and just skip to the part where you tell me where Geralt is, this ever-so-humble bard thanks you.” And he bows, only a little sarcastically. 

“What will you give me?” She rests her chin on her hand and looks at him with amusement. “What do you have to offer me, ever-so-humble bard?”

Jaskier glances over his shoulder at the writhing bodies and raises an eyebrow. “Left my lute on the horse, I’m afraid.” 

“No, none of that,” she says and laughs. “And none of your…other talents, either. I have a more pressing request. The djinn’s bottle and seal are missing; they were not with your witcher when he was found.” 

“Hmph, ‘resort of the desperate’ indeed!” Jaskier snorts, shakes his head. “What in the name of the gods was Geralt doing with a djinn? Did you find him? Where is he now?”

"Tsk, tsk," she laughs again, waving her finger. “Find it for me. I want the djinn’s bottle and seal. Then I’ll share what I know.”

"Alright,” Jaskier agrees. “Any inkling as to where?”

“The witcher was found asleep under a tree by the river. The dwarves can clue you in to the search.”

“Dwarves?”

“Yes. Seven of them, to be exact. Tell them Yennefer of Vengerberg sent you.”

* * *

Jaskier steps out of the portal and promptly vomits all over his boots. It feels like his body has been disassembled and put back together both hastily and incorrectly. 

“So this is why Geralt hates portals,” he mutters to himself after, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. His horse gazes at him dispassionately. “Sorry there, horse. She said speed was of the essence.” 

The promised group of dwarves are struggling to drag a felled tree into the river using a complex system of ropes and pulleys. Seven pairs of eyes glower at the bard.  
Jaskier wipes his boots on the grass and waves pleasantly. At least three of the dwarves flip him off. Their leader, a tallish dwarf with a bald and braided beard, jumps off the log and marches towards him. 

“I’m the bard Jaskier,” he says, bowing with a flourish, “Yennefer of Vengerberg sent me.”

“Aye, I assumed when you fell out of a fucking portal,” the dwarf laughs. “My name is Yarpen Zigrin. Me and my boys are damming this section of the river. Then we’ll drain this pond for that witch and depart with our coin.” 

Jaskier runs his tongue over his lip. “Lucky to have a group of specialists. To be frank, I wasn’t sure how I would start this search.” 

“Truth be told,” Yarpen sighs, “It’s a bit of a racist stereotype at play. Just because we’re dwarves people assume a natural skill at engineering, mining, etc. We’re passable at it, I’ll give ya that. But we really excel at drumming up business and parting folks from their coin, even snotty sorceresses.”

“Especially in these strange economic times,” another dwarf chimes in. “When one needs to diversify their portfolio a bit. Hedge across multiple business lines for maximum return.”

The group nods at each other. 

“What’s your normal business?” Jaskier asks. 

“Killing,” the dwarf says and the whole group whoops with rough laughter.

“Ah. Seems like that profession is really growing in popularity lately. Lots of supply and demand.” Jaskier says, feigning a casualness he doesn’t feel. “Anyway, would you mind showing me where they found Ger- the witcher?”

“Sure lad. It was right under that apple tree there. But unless you’re gonna sing that bottle right out from the waters, I don’t see how you can be of much help. And our work is weeks out, yet.” 

Jaskier places his hands on his hips and surveys the expanse of water. “Shit.” 

"Aye," Yarpen nods. "Shit indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This quarantine has given me a bad case of writer's block, so I decided to post in shorter chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

Yarpen awakens to the sound of music. At first, he thinks it's just another dream of his youth, a young dwarf son of a woodcutter who dreamed of being a dancer before his dad knocked the idea out of him a hundred times over. Well, maybe not fair to his Da to blame him --he'd been a shite dancer, no real sense of rhythm to speak of. Still. It’s the principle of the thing. 

It's a pretty song, whatever it is, but pretty songs don't just float through the woods at night. He steps out of his bedroll and heads toward the sound. Down towards the lake. 

The bard is sitting in the moonlight, strumming his lute and singing his lungs out like there’s an audience in front of him, and not only the quiet waters. 

_Never thought I'd be alright, no, no, no  
Till you came and changed my life, yeah, yeah, yeah! _

_You got what I want, boy, and I want it!  
So keep on giving it up!_

_So tell your mother, your brother, your sister, and your friends  
Tell the others, your lovers, better not be present tense _

Of course. They hadn't invited him into their camp last night, and Yarpen had hoped he had just left. He didn’t seem like the working type, so Yarpen had left him to poke around the apple tree. Cruel of the witch to send him on this errand. But hey, that’s the way of the world, and not his problem. 

The bard stares off into the night, not noticing the water moving near his feet, the churning of the waves, as a siren rises from the depths. She crawls out of the water, all tits and teeth, and before Yarpen can even yell _look out_ to the singing idiot, the siren is raising her hand, a bottle in her clawed grasp. 

“You found it!” the young man exclaims, like it’s just a normal, everyday conversation and there isn’t a literal fucking monster sitting at his feet. “Thank you. You’re a queen among sirens. I’ll write you your very own song, I swear it, and--” 

“And now your end of the bargain, human,” she hisses, green eyes narrowing. She crawls closer on her elbows, drags her sinuous body up the rocks toward him. Yarpen waits for the carnage to begin, but the bard just sighs, lifts the carrying strap over his head, and holds out his lute. The creature holds it to her herself. 

“It was a gift from Filavandrel,” the bard sniffs, wiping at his eyes. “Try to, erm, keep it away from moisture as best you can. It has a tendency to go flat in the damp.”

The siren looks at him, then at her fins, back at the water, and down at the lute before she shrugs with an elegant roll of her scaled shoulders and dives back beneath the water with the instrument. The bard winces. 

“You either got balls the size of dragon eggs, or you’re the dumbest fucker around,” Yarpen calls down to him and steps away from his hiding spot. 

The bard whirls around, surprised. “Sirens love music. Sometimes even more than they love drowning people. 50/50 chance.” The bottle is clutched tight in his hand. 

“So there’s the seal then,” Yarpen says with a grin. 

“Ah, yes, yes it is. Sorry, I know how hard you all have been working, what with the dam and all, but I’ll be leaving now! I’ll tell the witch you were _most_ helpful.” 

The bard tries to shuffle by Yarpen on the path with a smile and a wave, but he steps in front of him. “What’s her hold over you, boy? What did the witch promise you? Maybe we can cut a deal.”

“My friend, the witcher Geralt of Rivia, is missing. She promised me information.”

“Information on the witcher?” Yarpen laughs then for a full minute and wipes his eyes. “Lad, you’ve been had by one Yennefer of Vengerburg. Know what we were constructing before she sent us out for the djinn’s seal? A coffin, made of glass, to display her new specimen. She doesn’t just have information on the witcher – she _has_ the fucking witcher.” 

The bard’s face does a funny thing then, draining of color as his mouth moves soundlessly, like a fish. “Wh-what? _She what?_ ” 

“She has the witcher,” Yarpen repeats. “So hand that over.”

“It’s my only bargaining chip,” the bard says, dazed, then to himself, “Fuck. He was there this whole time?” 

"Sorry lad," Yarpen says apologetically, and moves to let him pass. The bard dips his head in thanks and hurries forward. The dwarf picks up a branch on the ground, weighs it in his hand quietly, and follows behind. 

“Sorry? She’s the one who should be--” the bard begins, before the branch connects with his skull and he drops like a stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I update three WIPs in one week? (Yes, apparently - and two completed). Will it sometimes take me nine months for an update? (Also yes!) But what is time, anyway, amiright? 
> 
> pratintraining - one more chapter and this gift is finished. <3
> 
> **yes, in keeping with the theme, those ARE the lyrics to Christina Aguilera's Ain't No Other Man


	4. Chapter 4

“You lied.” 

The sorceress raises one perfect eyebrow. The bard looks absolutely terrible. His face and outfit are smeared with dirt and his eyes are dark-circled and wild. 

“I would imagine,” Jaskier says, gesturing at the orgy of Rinde around them, “that this would lose some of its enjoyment after a while.” 

“Oh very well,” Yennefer says and snaps her fingers. With the magic dissipated, the crowd comes to with gasps and shrieks, pulling off their masks and diving for their discarded clothing. "And what exactly did I lie about, bard? You're late, by the way. The dwarves were here hours ago."

" _Late?_ " His face twists as he shouts. "Late! I _found_ the damn thing. Gave up Filavandrel's lute for it! And--and Yarpen _took_ it from me! I woke up face-down in a mud puddle with a lump the size of a basilisk egg on the back of my head --and about killed my horse riding here --and our agreement was that I needed to _find_ the bottle and seal, not _deliver_ it, and--"

"Julian!" A heavy-set man wearing a plumed hat and nothing else pushes his way forward from the crowd. Jaskier makes a choked, furious sound at the interruption. 

"And still squawking like a marsh hen, what a surprise. No wonder your witcher got himself ensorcelled." The man tilts his head back and laughs so hard tears appear in his eyes. "Probably the only peace he's had since you 'graced a ride along' or whatever euphemism you're using nowadays."

"Valdo," Jaskier hisses. "I heard your abysmal excuse for a ballad. ‘Djinn of Rinde?’ So stealing my songs isn't enough anymore, you came all this way to steal my muse too?"

"Steal your muse? How vulgar, Julian. Of course not." Valdo smiles, showing all his teeth. “Oh, but I just simply had to come and see what all the fuss was about. Julian Pancratz in love. Who would have guessed this day would finally come? Didn’t know you had it in you, sport." 

"Where is he?" Jaskier whirls toward Yennefer, who has a smile of her own on her face at their exchange. “Please. The dwarves said he was here.” And Jaskier manages a small, polite bow, although every inch of him is visibly quivering with rage.

She sighs. “Come closer, bard.” 

Jaskier looks up at her warily. She quirks her eyebrow at him and he exhales deeply, passes a hand across his face and moves to stand before her. She leans toward him, pressing two fingers to his temple and closes her eyes. After a moment, a smile passes across her face.

“Extraordinary,” she says. "You really do love him. Well, I suppose you can have your witcher. I don't especially need him. But all three djinn wishes are mine." She waves her hand at a corner of the room and the illusion falls away in a shimmer, revealing a raised stone dais. The witcher is laid out on the stone. "And what's a djinn wish when compared to true love’s kiss?" 

"True love's kiss!" Valdo crows as Jaskier shoulders past him towards the dais. The crowd parts easily for him, murmuring as he stumbles across the room, dazed, until finally he is leaning heavily against the altar for support. The light falls through the stained glass and washes his face with color.

"Oh, Geralt," he says, and it must be the concussion from earlier that steals his words away and leaves him dizzy at the sigh. "Geralt." Jaskier grasps his hand and brings it to his lips.

His hand is very cold. 

"A real kiss," Yennefer calls out. 

"Yes, slip a little tongue!" Valdo shouts. "I _know_ you know how, Julian!" 

And the entire crowd has all turned to the scene to shout their two orens, hooting and cheering and joking.

“Oh, Melitele's perfect alabaster tits, this is not how I envisioned this," Jaskier mumbles under his breath as he leans forward and covers Geralt's mouth with his own.

Nothing happens. 

Jaskier looks up, eyes pleading, and meets Yennefer’s gaze. She shrugs, even as a frown line creases her forehead. Jaskier takes a deep breath, bends back down, and kisses him again, deeply.

Once again, nothing happens. Geralt remains cold and still. 

"Oh," Jaskier says, softly, barely audible in the hush that has fallen over the room. Tears spring to his eyes then, and no one makes a sound as the bard places his head on the witcher's unmoving chest and sobs.

* * *

The first thing Geralt notices is the yelling. This is quickly followed by the realization that he can’t breathe. 

“I wish!” a voice that sounds like Jaskier’s shouts. “I wish --oh, _fuck_ you bit me?” 

Within a ring of cheering onlookers, Jaskier is wrestling a beautiful dark-haired woman. The woman is clutching an ornate bottle to her chest with one hand and with the other has the bard in a headlock. Nothing too unusual, then. 

Once his witcher senses have digested the scene, he focuses once more on the breathing part. He makes a strangled, horrible sound like a cat with a hairball and _nothing_. There’s something lodged in his throat and he can’t get a breath in and fuck, he’s never eating apples again, Roach can learn to like carrots instead--

“Geralt!” The room is starting to darken again, but there’s something anchoring about the fist suddenly thumping him on the back and the sharp blows to his stomach. Wheezing, he hacks the undigested bite of apple onto the ground and sucks in a breath. 

“Geralt!” the voice shouts again, right in his ear, and it’s Jaskier, of course. The bard’s arms are around him and he’s doing that cry-talking thing of his into Geralt’s neck. Geralt can make out the words “lute” and “djinn” and “kiss”... _kiss?_

“Jaskier,” he rasps, “how?” 

“He saved you.” The dark-haired woman gives him a look that Geralt can’t quite place. “True love’s kiss.” 

Jaskier lifts his head up and meets Geralt’s gaze. His eyes are a little hesitant, uncertain. 

“True love’s kiss,” Geralt repeats, pausing, before he leans down and kisses him deeply. “I wouldn’t have known to wish for such a thing.” 

“It’s, um, yours, if you’ll have it,” Jaskier says, a little breathlessly. “The ‘true love’ and the ‘kiss’ part and more besides. I’m yours, my dear witcher, if you’ll have me.” 

Geralt kisses him again in response. There’s a smattering of applause and cheers from the crowd when Jaskier laughs and throws his arms around his neck. The dark-haired woman dabs a little at her eyes but glares when Geralt notices. 

A man steps forward from the crowd with a mandolin and begins to sing: 

_Oh, toss a kiss to your witcher_

Jaskier’s head snaps up. His eyes narrow.

_Toss a kiss to your witcher_

_Though you are not comely,_

_Though he accepted it glumly_

Geralt places a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as the bard pulls a bottle and stopper from his sleeve. The sorceress screams something unintelligible as he unstoppers the bottle with his teeth. 

Jaskier laughs as he holds the bottle aloft, eyes meeting Geralt’s before he turns to the crowd with a grin. Geralt huffs with exasperation, one hand on his silver sword. Only Jaskier would think this was a good idea. 

Sigh. 

Gods, but he loves him. 

“I wish!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, @pratintraining for this lovely prompt. It was fun to get out of my "usual" and play around with these two idiots. <3


End file.
